Sympathy for the Icelanders Part III: Melting Ice
by HaloFin17
Summary: Third installment in the series. It's the morning after the Jr. Goodwill Games Championship, and not everyone is as happy as they should be. Others are just about what you'd expect. Julie/Gunnar. Still Julie's POV. Enjoy!


**Summary: **Third and final installment in the series. It's the morning after the Jr. Goodwill Games Championship, and not everyone is as happy as they should be. Others are just about what you'd expect. Julie/Gunnar. Still Julie's POV. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I freely confess I've had a ton of fun with these characters, but I still don't own them or anything else related to Disney or the Mighty Ducks.

**Author's Note: **Welcome, my friends, to our last little Icelander fic. It's bittersweet to be arriving at the conclusion after I've had so much fun with it, but I think it'll work out well. Personally, this one here is my favorite of the three in the series, but you'll have to let me know what you think. Above all else, I hope some of your own creative energies might have been inspired by these diverting little tales. Enjoy the finale!

**Sympathy for the Icelanders: Part III**

**Melting Ice**

I couldn't sleep. Despite my joy over having won the Jr. Goodwill Games hockey championship for Team USA, my night had been a restless one, and I awoke early. My roommate Connie was still asleep, a peaceful smile on her face continuing to reflect the sheer happiness of last night. I had been happy, too, until it was finally time to sleep. Instead of seeing gold medals and cheering crowds every time I closed my eyes, I saw his face; and I don't know why that troubled me so. It wasn't as though seeing the downcast, dejected expressions of my opponents was anything new to me.

Yet, here I was - six fourteen in the morning after the biggest game of my life, and I coudn't sleep. My mind was just such a whirl of emotions, I couldn't focus on anything. Jublilant or depressed, vindicated or guilt-laden...they all felt the same now. Maybe I just needed some time to clear my head and collect my thoughts; and the closed space of a dorm room was obviously not the proper place. Having already changed out of my pajamas, I threw on a light sweater over my tank top, quickly ran a brush through my hair so I could leave it down, and tip-toed past the rooms of my other slumbering teammates before heading out into the early light.

I wish I could say that all was calm and quiet to match my mood, but such is never the case in Los Angeles. There are always plenty of people milling about at any given time of day, hustling and bustling and not allowing you any time or grace to dwell on your own problems. Seriously, even now there were probably more people within five miles of me than in my entire hometown back in Maine. It was admittedly overwhelming, especially when we had first arrived, and I'm sure some of the foreign teams felt the same way. Possibly, for instance, those who came from a cold, remote island in the north Atlantic, where nearly one half of the country's meager population dwelt in the capital city...

I unconciously came to a sharp halt when I realized where my thoughts were leading me, almost getting run over from behind as a result. Shaking my head furiously to drag myself back to the present, I hurried on, taking no particular note as to where my steps were directed. My feet were acting on habit, and I chose not to hinder them.

So I shouldn't have been surprised to find myself standing outside the Arrowhead Pond ice stadium: the location of last night's wonderous achievements. I slowly wandered inside, praying there wouldn't be any members of the press around at such an early hour; but at least I knew from personal experience that the building would indeed be open to the public by now. It would be an opportune place for reflection. All was quiet, and I took my time, the echo of my ambling footsteps a surreal sound in the all-enveloping silence.

Except it wasn't silent. As I drew nearer, I became aware of definite sounds of activity coming from the ice rink. Simultaneously puzzled and intrigued, I picked up my pace until I reached the doors leading out onto the rink - the same doors my team had passed through last night on our way to victory. The scene that met my eyes this time, however, was anything but victorious.

One lone player skated out on the ice, his routine not to be interrupted now by whistles, cameras, or jeering fans. He wore no formal hockey gear outside of gloves and skates, but I didn't need a jersey to know who it was; a familiar black sports jacket and long-ish dark blonde hair were evidence enough. Gunnar Stahl.

From the looks of things, he'd already been out there quite a while; but no weariness showed through in his skating - only dogged determination, tinged with a hint of self-frustration. He had a pile of pucks dumped out in the middle of the ice and was running through the simple pattern of taking one down to shoot at the far goal before returning to center and starting anew. The bottom of my stomach sank when I realized what was happening. He was replaying his shot from last night - over, and over, and over, and over.

Although, I soon realized it wasn't the _exact _same shot, as he appeared to be mixing things up with quite an impressive variety. In fact, I think I saw him attempt every sort of shot _but _the one he'd actually used last night. The one Coach Bombay had known he would use.

I watched him for what seemed like very a long while, absolutely mesmerized by the rhythm and cadence of his exercise. He was even better than I'd originally given him credit for; there were many of his shots that I don't think I could have blocked yesterday, had he opted for one of them instead.

Time wore on until, suddenly, I remembered thinking that it was high time for me to go. How long did I have to stand here like a moron before realizing that this was a private, personal affair, and I was not invited along to be a spectator? That, of course, was when he finally looked up from the ice and caught my eye.

I fled.

_Oh, please no!_ I entreated, horrified, to whatever diety might hear me. _I'd rather be found by Sanderson again right now than by him. Please don't make me face him again, not like this!_ I sped up my pace and even contemplated running for it. He'd never be able to catch me once he got off the ice.

"Wait!"

I kept going, not even daring a glance back. Maybe he would think I hadn't heard him?

"Julie, wait!"

It was my name that made me stop. I had never heard him say it before - wasn't aware he even knew it.

"Wait, please..." At length, he caught up to me, his bare skates clicking rapidly against the floor as he approached. He had discarded the gloves and stick, leaving his hands bare. I forced myself to look up and meet his striking blue eyes, which for some reason, didn't seem nearly as hard and cold as they had that night back in the storeroom.

He took a moment to catch his breath, his face flushed and sweaty from the morning's exertion. I could feel my own face warming as well, but for very different reasons. What an idiot I was for sticking around long enough to let him catch me! To say I was embarrassed would be the understatement of the century.

"I...forgot to congratulate you yesterday."

I blinked, surprised. "What? No you didn't. You made your whole team congratulate us."

"Yes, but I did not congratulate you - personally." He sounded uncertain, almost unsure of himself. "It was a good save."

"Oh. Thank you." So that's what he was talking about. And it _had _been a pretty good save, if I do say so myself. Then why did I feel so dirty now? So guilty? I repressed a shudder, recalling stories of Wolf Stansson after his team's inconceivable loss to the Russians. Lord knows what he was like in the locker room last night. "It was a good shot, too."

Gunnar only rolled his eyes, looking disgusted. "I should not have missed it."

Why did I feel such a need to console him? I'm his opponent, not his mother, for goodness sake! I tried anyway. "You were still the leading scorer for the whole tournament..."

"But I could not make the one that really mattered!"

I winced at the abrupt harshness in his tone, and he sighed apologetically. "I am sorry. I'm not angry with you; it was a fair win."

At least _he _admitted as much. I'm not sure the same could necessarily be said of all his teammates.

"I only hate that I was so...predictable," he went on, stumbling a little in his choice of foreign words. "Your coach knew I would go glove-side, didn't he? That's why he sent you in - The Cat."

I cannot describe to you how desperately I wanted _not _to tell him; to simply say: _No, sorry, I'm just that good. _But I couldn't do it - could not bring myself to lie to him.

So I confessed, "Yeah. He did."

Gunnar shook his head, his eyes smoldering with blue fire. "There are a hundred different shots I might have taken. Any of them - anything I might have changed - would have given us a better chance. But no. Instead, I had to make a fool of myself and my entire team."

It hurt seeing him like this. I can't explain why - he was still "the enemy" after all - but it _did_ hurt, all the same. I guess this is the flip-side of victory that they never show you on the news or in the movies.

"I, uh, hope they don't blame you for..."

He finished the thought himself and cut me off. "They do. No one's said a word to me since we left the ice last night."

"Then, how long have you been here?" I asked, feeling uncharacteristically timid.

"I don't know - since three thirty or four, I imagine."

"In the morning?" My amazement must have shown.

"I couldn't sleep," he elaborated for me. "I didn't even bother going back to the dorms."

I couldn't help feeling a painful twinge at that and averted my gaze from his face. With one shot, the celebrated hero of their team was suddenly an outcast. Things would never be the same between these young men, these "friends," again.

"You don't look very happy."

I could feel the weight of his scrutiny and turned to look back up at him again. "Neither do you."

"I am not supposed to. You are."

"Yeah," I admitted lamely. "I know."

"So, why are you not?"

"Oh, I don't know! It's just that I...I'm sorry." The words tumbled out of my mouth before I even realized I was saying them. I braced myself for a cold response.

But all I heard was genuine curiosity. "What?"

"I mean, don't get me wrong, I wanted to stop your shot last night, and I wanted my team to win." He nodded his understanding, encouraging me to go on, and I took a deep breath. "But I don't want to be the reason you lost your teammates' respect. Or your coach's."

At the mention of Stansson, Gunnar snorted softly, and I immediately regretted bringing it up.

"I'm not sure I ever had his," the young man before me reflected, his expression melancholy. "And he will certainly never have mine again."

He sounded so bitterly disheartened, I couldn't resist the urge to comfort him again.

"But you were his best player." I could have slapped myself. "Still _are _his best player." And I could make that statement with total honesty - Gunnar Stahl was the finest hockey player in our age group I'd ever seen.

"Thanks," he replied, not sounding overtly convinced, "but I was never the favorite."

That was news to me! I didn't see how it could be otherwise. "You weren't?"

"No. I may have been one of his best players, but Olaf was his favorite. He has always been more...willing than I was."

Right - like going after Connie and Adam the way he did during the championship. The partiality made sense, from what I knew of Coach Stansson.

"I guess my conscience is just too weak," he concluded.

"No," I interjected firmly, surprised at my own vehemence. "Gunnar, there is nothing 'weak' about playing fair! And nothing 'strong' about playing dirty, like Stansson or Sanderson do."

I was feeling pretty good about myself then, until a new thought suddenly occurred to me. _Sanderson..._

"I...I hope Olaf doesn't stay mad at you forever, being friends for as long as you have."

Gunnar shrugged. "He may hate me for a week or two - but I do hope not forever." He had tried to be stoic in his response, but I could tell how much the words pained him.

I attempted a change in subjects. "I see he got your jacket back to you."

"Yah. He tried to give me a hard time about it, but I was too tired then to care. And too sore."

And boy, did I know why. My anger at Stansson simmered anew, but I forced my countenance to retain its composure. "Um, thanks for that, by the way. I never did really thank you for your help that night."

I had half-expected him to wave it off in typical guy fashion and say that it had been nothing. What I heard instead was a very simple and very courteous, "You're welcome."

I wasn't sure how to respond to that. So there was a long pause, until I switched topics again.

"Do you think you'll keep playing hockey back home in Iceland?"

He shrugged apathetically. "I hope so."

"You _hope _so?" Good grief, hanging around this guy was enough to make me want to cry! "You make it sound like that one shot is going to haunt you for the rest of your natural life."

"It might."

"But it was just one shot!"

"One _missed _shot."

"No," I corrected tersely, "one _saved_ shot. It's not like you completely missed the net or anything. You did the very best you could."

And then we were back to our awkward silence.

_Get out of here! _whispered a still, small voice inside my head. _You've seen him, now there's no reason to stay any longer. Just leave! _

His accented voice interrupted my thoughts. "So, when do you go home?"

"Tomorrow morning." Suffice to say, I didn't listen to the still, small voice. "How about you?"

"Late tomorrow evening. We will sleep on the plane, stop over in New York for a couple of hours, then sleep again on the next flight home, and get back just in time to go to bed again."

I grinned, relishing the dry humor. It was the closest thing to a joke I'd ever heard from his mouth. "So you'll be making up for all the sleep you missed during the tournament, right?"

He sighed, the sound unmistakably weary. "I must really look like a wreck, don't I?"

"Yeah," I admitted, somewhat sheepishly. "You do look pretty terrible." _But still no less attractive._

He made no argument, and before I was even cognizant of it, I spoke again. "Have you, um, had breakfast yet?"

"No," answered simply. "I'm not hungry. Why do you ask?"

"Well, only because I was about to go get something to eat, and I was just wondering...if you weren't ready to go back to your own team yet...maybe you'd like to come with me?" The completed question barely made it out of my mouth. What on earth was I saying? But it was too late to retract the offer now.

The next thing I knew, he had taken a step closer, and I involuntarily took one back, bumping up against the wall in the process. One slow yet steady hand reached out to brush aside my hair and cup my face. Gosh, but his hands were cold! A painful reminder of exactly where he was from. I suppose I should have guessed his intentions then; perhaps I deliberately chose not to.

The star player for Team Iceland leaned in close and kissed me. It was unexpected, but surprisingly, not unwelcome. My first impression was that he tasted salty - of sweat and maybe even dried tears. But anything else would have been untrue; anything else would not have been him.

It wasn't my first kiss, but it was the longest. I was backed up against the wall, so I couldn't have pulled away even if I'd wanted to. I didn't want to. Apparently, hockey was not Gunnar Stahl's only talent. I was surprised, yes, and very much so; but it still felt right, somehow.

It was ironic. Last night, Coach had told me Gunnar was "fancy," but I rather doubt _this _is what he'd had in mind. And who would have thought that the touch of an Icelander could reduce my heart to a melted puddle in the bottom of my shoes? Almost of its own accord, my own hand wound its way up around his neck to stroke through his damp hair. Sweaty or no, only then did I realize how long I'd been wanting to do that.

At length, we broke apart, and I simply stood there for a moment, speechless and breathless, while the pitiful puddles of my heart sought to resume functioning.

"So...can I take that as a 'yes' to breakfast, then?"

And for the first time that morning, Gunnar Stahl smiled.

**Author' End Note: **And, yes, my friends, that is the end. The rest is entirely up to your own creative imaginations. But I, at least, would imagine that some useful contact information was exchanged over breakfast and that this isn't really "the end" for Julie and Gunnar. Plot bunnies, anyone? Thanks for reading!


End file.
